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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28421232">you feel like home (than anywhere i’ve been)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelypl4n3t/pseuds/lovelypl4n3t'>lovelypl4n3t</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flower Shops, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Oblivious Ushijima Wakatoshi, Pining Tendou Satori, Semi Eita is a good friend, Shirabu Kenjirou is so done, tendou is an artist, wakatoshi helps his grandmother</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:42:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,060</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28421232</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelypl4n3t/pseuds/lovelypl4n3t</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>“Satori-kun,” Wakatoshi rumbled, “you look very tired. Have you been sleeping?” </p>
  <p>That hint of concern suddenly hit him like a fucking freight train. It blossomed on his skin like new bruises formed by receiving volleyballs, like the paint that he’d spill and forget to clean up. </p>
  <p>He wanted to kiss Wakatoshi.<br/></p>
</blockquote><br/>(or: satori has a big crush on his coworker and wakatoshi is oblivious)
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tendou Satori/Ushijima Wakatoshi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>146</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you feel like home (than anywhere i’ve been)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was three weeks into working at ‘the Flower Pot’ that Tendou Satori realised he’d made a grave mistake. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>At the time, Satori had just moved into a new city, a new apartment and therefore, needed a new job in order to pay rent. The local florist was hiring, so he took the bait and applied. To his surprise, A sweet old woman by the name of Utsui Ayameko had interviewed him, looking over his practically anemic resume with eyes that scoured each line on the hastily printed out page. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori had never really had a job before, and being fresh out of university was slightly scary, even to the famed ‘Guess Monster’ which towered over volleyball opponents with umbrella-shaped blocks. With it being a new year and all, he figured that trying new things was always good -- especially if they were out of his comfort zone. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>In the middle of his second year at senior high, he’d decided to leave volleyball in the dust. It just wasn’t for him, despite his obvious and overwhelming talent in it. He couldn’t picture a future where he ever played professionally, and he didn’t love it in the same way his team-mates did. They lived and breathed the sport, no longer worried about the bruises that littered their forearms from receiving or the redness in their palms from spiking. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A friend and old opponent of his though, did go pro immediately after high school -- Bokuto Koutarou. It was incredible to see someone he’d once played against at Nationals play professionally, for the MSBY Jackals. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori had been offered to go pro, being given a few offers and all, but he’d refused them all. He’d said no in spite of his coach’s disbelief, putting his foot down and accepting it. He wasn’t going professionally, and that was okay.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>So where did it leave him now? </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Well for starters, he’d gone to college in Tokyo. The big city was so huge and loud, and he seemed to fit right in, entangling himself within the bright lights and strange sounds he’d never seen in the countryside. Sure, he’d been to Tokyo for the many Nationals his team had qualified and attended, but they’d never done anything outside of winning a few games, sleeping like the dead, or eating like their lives depended on it. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Art had found him in the beginning of his third year at Shiratorizawa, sneaking in and filling a part of his heart he didn’t know was empty -- he’d fallen hard for the simple act of spreading his bright colours on a canvas and watching the once flat void spring to life. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>His friend, Semi Eita, had supported him when he’d first applied to the Tokyo University of the Arts, sending in a full portfolio of his most favourite pieces, some representing memorable moments and some that he’d done on a whim while bored. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Graduating had been a sinch, but finding work after that? It seemed to be impossible. Satori was practically living out of his parent’s pocket, and each time they paid for something like his rent for another week, he found himself wondering why he hadn’t picked the easy route. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was why he was in this town, searching desperately for a job like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Semi was only a phone call away, he promised himself, if it didn’t work out. There was always going to be some coffee shop around the corner, willing to take in a starving artist with a passion?</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t been sure he’d landed the job, even if it was just customer work and filing. However, the email he’d received a week later proved otherwise. It promptly stated that he’d been hired into their meager task force which he later found out only consisted of Ayameko herself and her heavily devoted grandson, Wakatoshi. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Their flower shop was blooming with life, with plants of all kinds heaped at the walls and some even suspended from pots hanging from the ceiling. Most of all, he’d been interested to meet Wakatoshi himself; Satori had been informed by Ayameko that the two were the same age. He was curious as to why Wakatoshi was skulking around his grandmother’s shop instead of partying it up like he’d expected from a post-college guy. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>However, all was revealed when Satori had turned up for his first day of essentially shadowing Wakatoshi until he felt he could successfully do what was required. Wakatoshi happened to be a monster of a man, standing at a height of 6’3 with broad shoulders that seemed to block out the sun. His face was perpetually lined with apathy, his jawline was prominent and sharp, and his eyes often had an intense, faraway look in them. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Overall, it wasn’t what Satori had expected. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wakatoshi was stoic, quiet and blunt. However, when he was in the company of the hundreds of plants that called ‘the Flower Pot’ their home, it was a completely different story. His fierce expression almost seemed to melt away, exposing a soft look that Satori had only seen two separate times in his three weeks of working with him. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It was heartwarming to see a Hercules of a man hunched over a span of dirt, muttering seemingly to himself as he mindfully repotted plants they’d ordered the previous week. Satori had only just realised that Wakatoshi was in fact, not speaking to himself when he spoke in his hushed tones, but to the plants he was dutifully caring for like a socially inept father. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Wakatoshi-kun, why do you talk to the plants?”</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“They deserve love and praise too, do they not? And I speak quietly in order to not bother you.” Wakatoshi had insisted, even while his hands were grimed with dirt and there was a soft hum of old country music in the background. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>When Wakatoshi had first put on his favoured music, Satori had groaned -- as a genre, country was never good, especially if it was old. However, Wakatoshi had explained it was from his father and he’d grown up in the rural, merciless area of Kurokawa, in the Miyagi prefecture. He’d learnt how to remove weeds before the age of ten, and had the concept of nutrition and growing drilled in as he learnt to stand on his own two feet. Wakatoshi had often described it as a passing of energy that started somewhere, and is transferred through the life cycle. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori often found pleasure in working with Wakatoshi, admiring the way he effortlessly could slide a plant, (roots entirely intact), out of it’s shitty packaging container and into the rich, sustenance-filled soils that they both believed it thoroughly deserved. Those kinds of skills, Satori decided, only came from years upon years of practise. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The only thing Satori saw himself skilled at was managing to finish an entire Shonen Jump chapter in thirty minutes. Of course, there was his university degree, but it didn’t mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the real world. People wouldn’t just decide to buy his art when they’d hear he went to a prestigious art school. He’d have to entice them with glimpses of the bright, colourful messes he created. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Unfortunately, it all went to shit when he turned up to his work in a paint-stained shirt, hair messy and unkempt, eyes wild and frantic from running the full three miles from his cheap apartment to the glorious flower shop. Miss Utsui was busy, and Wakatoshi was running the front by himself. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I’m sorry I’m late!” Satori panted, hands leaning on his knees in an effort to stabilize himself and avoid falling flat on his face because it was 8:30 in the morning, and the few brain cells that were awake at this hour were running in overdrive, likely knocking into each other as they frantically worked. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt like an utter mess -- he grabbed the first shirt he could find from the mess that he called the floor of his apartment -- and he hadn’t bothered combing, washing or even styling his hair. It lay in a flat disarray around his head, some strands sticking out and looking exceptionally </span>
  <em>
    <span>greasy. </span>
  </em>
  <span>God, did he want to curl up and just die. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t the fact that he was late in the first three weeks of his new job, (he’d stayed up late again, slashing his brush against a spare canvas like it had personally wronged him), it was the fact he looked this </span>
  <em>
    <span>bad </span>
  </em>
  <span>in front of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wakatoshi. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The Wakatoshi that was always there, 8:00 at the dot in order to open up shop fifteen minutes later. The Wakatoshi that was always dressed immaculately, clean shirt over well-fitted jeans and covered by the usual apron he was required to wear. The Wakatoshi who’s hair was always done into an effortless almost-fringe, as Satori liked to call it.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The very same Wakatoshi that was looking at him, the softest, most worried expression encasing his usually stoic and apathetic features. It made Satori want to bow down, like a mortal in the mere presence of their god. It was like the rickety ceiling in the Flower Pot had suddenly given way, revealing a golden light that gave his coworker a brilliant gleaming hue that complimented the olive green of his hair or the matching jade of his eyes. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright, Satori-kun?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>An angel was speaking to him.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A very herculean angel, he supposed, (but an angel nonetheless), as he thought up a reply that didn’t make him seem like a complete idiot for knowingly pulling an all-nighter on a single project that probably wouldn’t sell. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah! Yeah, I’m totally alright. Why do you ask, Wakatoshi-kun?”</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s paint on your shirt.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick glance towards the seam of his shirt revealed blobs of red, blue and black paint that he cursed himself for accidentally spilling. They looked dried on, so he assumed it was from his painting spree on Sunday, his free day from working at the shop. He’d gone mad with the oils, rushing out to a local craft store to buy several different sizes and shapes of canvases that had suddenly </span>
  <em>
    <span>come alive </span>
  </em>
  <span>with colour. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, he was feeling the downsides of that high as he picked at the paint in order to get it to flake off like it did with his acrylics. Unfortunately, these were oil paints. Because they’d dried, there was no hope of getting them out. Ever. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, sorry, Wakatoshi-kun! My alarm didn’t go off.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wakatoshi’s wistful glance seemed to spark something in Satori. It brought out that feeling that had been stewing in his stomach, feeding the butterflies that had lain there until they broke free of their cocoons and fluttered to escape. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like to go behind the counter first, or should I?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And the moment was ruined. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori figured he could change into a different shirt, as he had a few hanging around the back of the shop, hopefully he could find one. A little thought nudged itself into his brain -- what if he wore one of Wakatoshi’s shirts? It would probably fit, the two were pretty similar in stature but Wakatoshi was slightly taller and had larger muscles. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He scolded himself as he replied. “You take the counter, Wakatosh-kun. I’ll go…” He paused to find the right words. “Clean myself up.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>With a stoic nod and a small walk to where he’d originally been standing behind the counter, Wakatoshi agreed. “I hope you are okay, Satori-kun.” He rumbled, hands fiddling and resetting the cash register. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Grinning at the small sentence, Satori brightened exponentially. “I’ll be fine, Wakatoshi-kun. Don’t worry your pretty little head.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wakatoshi didn’t seem to understand. His face twisted into a look of confusion as he tried to comprehend what his coworker had just said. “But my head is not pretty, nor is it small.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori shook his head playfully, not saying anything as he left the front of the shop to Wakatoshi’s very capable hands. It was strange, having his hair down in a place where he only had it up -- he was glad Wakatoshi hadn’t commented bluntly on it.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d begun gelling his hair into an updo at the age of thirteen, his second year of middle school. Children were so mean, saying things without thinking and of course, always meaning them. There was no filter, Satori often found, when it came to him.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The other kids in his class didn’t like his cherry-red bowlcut, nor did they like his too-wide eyes or even his raucous and riotous laugh that spilled out of his mouth each time he successfully blocked a spike. It didn’t exactly help his first name was Satori, after all. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Japanese Mythology told of the word satori like a curse, mentioning monsters, (yokai, the children called him), that were mind-reading and monkey-like. They were rumoured to be able to speak a person’s thoughts faster than the human itself could, spurring a fear and later hatred. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The myth haunted him until he reached high school, finally finding solace away from the booming laughter and insults that were hurled at him like a never-ending stream of bullets. They ripped at his skin and tore apart his self confidence until his coach sat him down. Washijou merely said, “I don’t care how you score points, as long as you do,” to him, but it made his week. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>His senpais in the volleyball team stood up for him one day, and from then on, he could co-exist with the students and actually enjoy things. He’d found a valuable friend in Semi, who had grown into the team’s mother. Satori liked to think of himself as the wistful uncle with plenty of advice, but the team had decided he was the team’s local cryptid. He’d only found out what it was after graduation, but he’d decided it fitted pretty well.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It was why he couldn’t help but take in his current appearance in the single mirror that lay upright in the messy back room. It was a cave, but it was filled with spare shirts, spare cash for change, a fridge and sink for meals, and shelves filled with boxes upon boxes. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>His hair was, for the first time in years, framing his face. His eyes were dragged down by eyebags that had darkened significantly since the last time he’d checked, and his face was slightly sunken in from the meals he’d missed in favour of art. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Satori-kun? Oba-chan is taking care of the front.” Wakatoshi’s voice sliced him out of his self-assessment, his body casting shadows into the room. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wakatoshi-kun?” His protest was in vain as the other boy stepped forward, drinking in his features. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Satori-kun,” Wakatoshi rumbled, “you look very tired. Have you been sleeping?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That hint of concern suddenly hit him like a fucking freight train. It blossomed on his skin like new bruises formed by receiving volleyballs, like the paint that he’d spill and forget to clean up. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted to kiss Wakatoshi. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted to hold the rough hands he’d seen caring for plants, the hands that unskillfully operated the cash register, the hands that eagerly turned up the old country music until it was fully similar to blaring police sirens. He wanted to be swaddled in Wakatoshi’s shirts like a small child, despite their not-so-different heights and builds. Most of all, however, he wanted to see how the lips that spoke softly to plants, sang along to the aforementioned country music, muttered little curses when things didn’t go his way -- he wanted to see how they’d feel against his own. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Would they be smooth? Would they be chapped and dry, in need of moisture? Would they be pursed into a smile when he connected their mouths? </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori desperately, with all he had, wanted to find out. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It was in these soft thoughts that he almost forgot to reply, mind filled with whirring possibilities and ideas. “Uh, yes! I have, thank you, Wakatoshi-kun.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There was silence as Wakatoshi came closer, feeling less like a shadowy monster from the hallway and more like his beloved coworker of which Satori had just realised he wanted to kiss. It was difficult to ignore the jackhammering of his heart in his chest. It was like his heart wanted to escape his ribcage, breaking his bones to suddenly become free -- combined with the sudden infestation of butterflies, Satori was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>in for a good time. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I-I’ll just go start taking stock on the new shipment we got in yesterday!” Satori excused himself with a flimsy justification, knowing full well that Wakatoshi was the one best at caring for plants that had been half-hazardly thrown in plastic packaging and shipped across the globe. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>But still, did it feel good to be out of his friend’s withering judgement. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He was sure that Wakatoshi saw right through him, seeing the sweat pooling under his arms or the redness that had seeped across his face when they’d locked eyes. God, he needed to get his shit together -- he was twenty two years old, and he shouldn’t be behaving like a lovesick puppy in need of attention.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It had to stop. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori was going to ask Wakatoshi out. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And by the time he was able to decide on that simple matter (it took him a good ten minutes), he finally felt like he could breathe one again. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>⊶⊶⊶</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The first time he tried to make his feelings clear, it all went to hell. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori had decided that perhaps, a book store was the way to go. Sure, he’d never stepped inside one since Semi had dragged him in their last year of high school, but it couldn’t be that bad, right?</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He was wrong. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> that bad.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It was too quiet, for a start. Maybe it was his volleyball wired brain, he supposed. He was probably accustomed to loud noises like the sound of a ball hitting his palms when he spiked, or the satisfying thump when he blocked a poorly concealed spike. That was okay, for the time being at least, and he’d get over it. Eventually.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Secondly, there weren’t many books on volleyball, and all the ones on art he found were filled with art </span>
  <em>
    <span>history, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which Satori found absolutely life-drainingly boring. Of course, some people he knew would say otherwise. He was pretty sure Taichi was into art history, and it wasn’t fine arts like Satori went to university for, but Semi was also interested in music history, being a musician and all. Perhaps he’d find a nice book on long-dead composers, wrap it up, and send it to him as a thank you for putting up with him? His birthday wasn’t for a few more months. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Wakatoshi has not glanced up at him in a good twenty minutes. He sat there, beside Satori, with a book rested in his calloused hands. It’s flipped open to about a third through, showing how much his coworker has read in just under twenty minutes. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The book was obviously about exotic plants -- featuring some of the weirdest looking ones Satori has seen in a while -- and that was saying something because Satori was, in his own opinion, pretty weird himself. Wakatoshi just kept flicking the pages, eyes drawn to each new and cool plant that happened to be even stranger than the last. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There was one plant in the photo, seeming to stand taller than an average man, with just the flower alone. The petals were a pretty burgundy colour, but that idea of beauty being associated with the plant was thrown out the window the minute Wakatoshi caught him reading over his shoulder and said the name of the plant: the Corpse Flower. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is native to Indonesia and Malaysia. It emits the smell of decomposing mammals in order to attract carrion-seeking insects.” Wakatoshi murmured, in order to not disturb other customers. “Isn’t that fascinating?”  </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not exactly the word I’d use…” Satori ruefully admitted. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Upon seeing Satori’s mild interest in those wacky plants, Wakatoshi flipped to another page, the most eager Satori had seen him in a while. It revealed a harmless looking tree, complete with light green leaves and delightful little fruits that looked a little bit like limes. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori couldn’t help but forget to bite his tongue. “What’s so special about this one?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s called the death apple tree. The fruit is poisonous, the sap is toxic from the leaves and the stems, and if you burn it, it can cause blindness.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly the things that Satori thought were okay, suddenly weren’t. However, Wakatoshi seemed to be enjoying himself. There was a little glint in his eyes as he scoured the pages for information, sometimes emitting cute little gasps at strange facts. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The artist in him couldn’t help but want to lock that memory away forever. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He reluctantly took a seat next to Wakatoshi, head leaning on the other’s shoulder because </span>
  <em>
    <span>god </span>
  </em>
  <span>was he too tired to hold his own head up. They were pressed to each other, slotted in like two perfectly made jigsaw pieces. Wakatoshi’s warmness seeped into his skin, and they spent the afternoon like that, comfortably discussing exotic plants in a small, homely bookshop. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It was when Satori got home that he realised he was meant to confess today -- mission failed. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>⊶⊶⊶</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>His second attempt didn’t go any better, but at least he actually remembered to bring up the subject and say </span>
  <em>
    <span>something. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It just happened to be his luck that Wakatoshi knew a lot about insects, and although Satori found each fact very interesting, it wasn’t what he was after.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They were at the local botanic gardens, in pure awe at the looming towers of green that Wakatoshi soon recognised as some or other plant he’d been trying to get at the Flower Pot but unfortunately, his oba-chan couldn’t find any stock or any demand. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Caterpillars have twelve eyes.” Wakatoshi spoke quietly, hands curling in his pocket as he admired the glistening stream of Sudere Falls. Satori almost didn’t hear him over the rush of the river and the slight cricket of small bugs.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Caterpillars have twelve eyes.” He repeated, slightly louder. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s so cool, Wakatoshi-kun!” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a silence between them as the youngest of the two, (Wakatoshi, surprisingly), turned around and opened his mouth again. “While gathering food, bees may fly up to sixty miles in a day.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It made Satoru fully swirl around, taking in Wakatoshi’s pensive look as he glanced at him. The two were locked in what seemed like a staring contest, until Satori spoke. He hastily grabbed what courage he could find at the current moment, inhaling to calm his rising nerves and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>saying it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wakatoshi-kun, I like you.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A small smile merely rose on Wakatoshi’s face as he understood what Satori said, but however, it seemed like he didn’t know what he’d said. Or, the undertones of what he’d intended Wakatoshi to understand.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Satori-kun, it is important for friends to like each other.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori wanted to slap his hand to his face and </span>
  <em>
    <span>curse </span>
  </em>
  <span>like a goddamn sailor. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>God, was it not supposed to go this way. However, in hindsight, he supposed he should’ve thought ahead, because Wakatoshi had the worst social skills known to man. He didn’t seem to pick up on any cues, no matter how obvious it was. Hindsight is twenty twenty, he supposed. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It just made Satori want Wakatoshi even more.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori didn’t have the heart to explain what he really meant by ‘liking’, even when Wakatoshi took his hand and led him to a small little garden, filled with some flowers he could recognise from the shop. He didn’t have the heart when he could feel their skin on skin contact, feel the warmth from Wakatoshi’s palms against his own. And whatever heart he had disappeared when Wakatoshi gestured at a flower in front of him, bringing the head of it closer with careful fingers.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He stayed silent when Wakatoshi told him, “ants can lift and carry more than fifty times their own weight.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“That one, I knew.” Satori teased, standing up with shaky legs. “Shall we go home? Utsui-san probably misses you.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And, they did. The two hour train ride from the flower shop to the botanic garden awaited them, and was filled with little memories of Satori leaning his head on Wakatoshi’s shoulder, their shared headphones filling an ear each of music. Wakatoshi’s old country suddenly blossomed into more modern pop, the excuse being, “I liked it.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori actually fell asleep in the last half hour of the ride, Wakatoshi reluctantly being forced to wake him up with adorable little pokes to his shoulder. “Satori-kun, please wake up. Our stop is here.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a little ache in his heart from when he </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried </span>
  </em>
  <span>to confess, but Wakatoshi’s lack of knowledge about social cues put up an iron wall even he couldn’t break down. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s that wall he was complaining about on the following Sunday, phone in hand as he sat on his shitty couch in his shitty apartment. His friend, Semi, was on the line, voice consoling as Satori moaned about Wakatoshi. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really like him. I do! But I’ve tried twice already to confess. The first time I forgot, and the second time he thought it was friendly. God, help me.” He ended his little rant dramatically, sliding down his sofa until his ass was against the floor and his head looking at the ceiling, comforted by the softness of the couch seat. He let out a big sigh. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“The guy likes flowers, right? Use them, or something.” Semi’s boyfriend, Shirabu, said lazily, and presumably their conversation was on speakerphone. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That sparked an idea in Satori’s head, as he quickly thanked Shirabu, (who grunted an unhelpful, “you’re welcome”), said a goodbye to Semi, and quickly hung up. He immediately went on a scavenger hunt for his laptop, which he found about fifteen minutes later and then proceeded to turn it on. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The last thing he’d searched online for was jobs in his area, and Satori gave a snort when he deleted the tab, bringing up a search: how to say go on a date with me in flower language.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d heard of the language of flower meanings, and was </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoping </span>
  </em>
  <span>that there was some flower or other that represented romantic love and dating. If not, he was sure that he would lose all hope, snap his laptop closed, and -- probably -- let a few tears roll over his cheeks. Thankfully, he did find a flower that suited his needs: red tulips. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Red tulips apparently symbolised deep love, with red being associated with passion and romance and tulips being the flower associated with the eleventh wedding anniversary. Satori wasn’t quite sure when he’d ever need to know the last fact, but he was sure that Wakatoshi would find it interesting, and store it away in his brilliant mind. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>With a quick phone call to Ayameko to ensure they actually had his intended flower choice, Satori couldn’t help but let a grin sneak onto his face as he put his phone down and </span>
  <em>
    <span>cheered. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His hands were in the air, his apartment still messy as ever but at least, this time, he might have a way to get through to Wakatoshi. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d even offered to make the bouquet herself, but Satori had declined gracefully, saying that a little part of him screamed that it had to be special, it had to be from his heart. The very heart he was willing to put out on the line for the oblivious man he worked with. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>A week had passed since Shirabu had given him the idea, and Satori was absolutely buzzing. He wasn’t sure what with, however, because he was nervous. He even wondered if Wakatoshi even felt the same way he did, or if Wakatoshi had someone else. But, Ayameko’s willingness to help said something, because if Wakatoshi had a partner, Satori had the inklings that she wouldn’t offer her assistance like she had. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The bouquet was in his hands as he walked to the Flower Pot, hair perfectly gelled, shirt clean, and his face looking better than it had in awhile. His eye bags were disappearing by the day, and his face looked less sunken because he’d actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>remembered to eat. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was a sure step in the right direction, he supposed. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wakatoshi was there as usual, hair perfectly brushed into his signature almost-bangs, his olive eyes looking incredibly stoic, and his hands buried into the dirt surrounding a fragile-looking sapling. His apron was slightly dirty, even at 8:15 in the morning.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mornin’, Wakatoshi-kun!” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, Satori-kun.” Wakatoshi replied, turning his attention back to the plant. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s now or never,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Satori thought desperately as he swallowed nervously. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wakatoshi-kun? These are for you. I-I wasn’t sure if you’d understand…” Wakatoshi’s intense gaze was back on him as he held out the bouquet, feet dug into the floor in order to keep his arms from shaking. “Y-You don’t have to answer now, I-I’ll go now.” With that, Satori left the flowers in Wakatoshi’s hands, hating the way his breath caught in his throat as he walked to the back room. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It was barely a day later, on the following morning, that Satori came into work to see the very man he’d been chasing (if you could call it chasing), standing there. His face seemed to be very unsure, judging by what emotions Satori had seen him express, but he held a lovely arrangement of red carnations in his hands. “These are for you.” Wakatoshi said meekly, a small redness lighting up his cheeks. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Satori scoured his brain -- what did they mean? He’d never been very good at remembering things, and that was obvious in art school when he’d constantly forget what specific techniques were called. Sure, he’d use them anyway, but with all the written tests his professors had always assigned, none hadn’t required their proper names. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>At last, he came to it. It had been a few minutes, and Wakatoshi was looking more out of his comfort zone by the minute. “Would you like to go out with me?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, oh my god. I’ve been trying to ask you that for the past two weeks but either,” Satori paused for air. “I forgot, or you took it the wrong way.” He laughed, and Wakatoshi stepped closer. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I sincerely apologise for that, I was unaware of what you meant.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s okay, Wakatoshi-kun. I’m just glad…” He smiled, and took Wakatoshi’s hand in his. “Can I… Can I have a hug?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And suddenly, Satori was enveloped in a light crushing sensation that just screamed </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wakatoshi! </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was warm and comforting, with their slight height differences. Satori had his arms wrapped around Wakatoshi’s middle, and the latter had his over the other’s shoulders. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I care very deeply for you.” Wakatoshi whispered into his hair, and Satori couldn’t help but wiggle in even further, until his head was pressed against the younger’s shoulder. It was absolutely perfect, and Satori felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>home. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>His home wasn’t a place or a feeling, like he’d first thought. He’d first associated the feeling of home with his art, his mess of an apartment, and the happiness he gained when he splattered paint on an unsuspecting canvas. Now, he realised. His home wasn’t a place or a feeling, it was a person. And his person was Wakatoshi, the herculean man from the flower shop on the other side of town. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>OMAKE:</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The two had been dating for a week when Wakatoshi came to the conclusion: he hadn’t seen Satori’s apartment yet. Now, he wasn’t sure what social connotations came along with it, but as he found out after researching, he just wanted to see where Satori was living. None of the intimate things he’d seen when he’d investigated, because he figured that they weren’t comfortable with that. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Satori? Can we go to your apartment?” Wakatoshi was repotting some plants, the usual old country in the background. Satori was seated next to him, humming along. It seemed he’d expanded his music tastes to incorporate things Wakatoshi enjoyed.</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apartment? It’s messy, but sure! I guess.” Satori replied eventually. “You could see my paintings! I forgot you haven’t seen them yet…” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would love to see your paintings, Satori.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was settled -- they’d have a small, homely dinner at Satori’s place of residence at Wakatoshi’s request. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That dinner-date turned out to be a week later, and Satori walked hand-in-hand with his slightly taller boyfriend. He swung their connected hands, and practically skipped. Wakatoshi had a small, fond smile on his face. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They were boyfriends now! It hadn’t really hit Satori until a full 24 hours later, when he’d come to the realisation at 2am on a Tuesday night. He’d danced stupidly in his miniature flat, making sure to not step on that one length of wood that </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>creaked. It would annoy his neighbours, he reasoned. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Home, sweet home.” Satori announced, unlocking the door and when it didn’t open with the twist of his hand, Satori gave it a bit of a thump with his right elbow. “It’s old.” He explained, letting his boyfriend inside. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The apartment itself was exactly what Wakatoshi had expected -- loud in the sense of bright, bombarding colours, messy, with documents spilled everywhere, but the warmness of the place itself gave it a homely feel. It was precisely what Wakatoshi had pictured Satori living like. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>However, he hadn’t anticipated the large canvases and bottles of paint everywhere. There was a piece drying by the window, the once blandness of the canvas stolen by luminous wads of colour that just </span>
  <em>
    <span>fit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>A cup filled with dirty, grey water sat by an easel, filled with brushes. And, to Wakatoshi’s surprise, there were no stains of paint -- anywhere. Not even on the floor beneath the drying art. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shall we get started on dinner?” Satori chirped, taking his hand and leading him away from the chaos of his living room. Instead, an idea came to Wakatoshi. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you teach me how to paint?” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Less than five minutes later, Wakatoshi was laughing. Satori was standing behind him, his experienced hands guiding his boyfriend’s less experienced hands towards the blank void in front of him. Satori’s chin rested on his shoulder. Reds and oranges splattered together, mixing with blues. Satori steered him away from mixing all the shades too much, “they’ll make a brown, and brown isn’t very pretty.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wakatoshi proceeded to correct him. “Brown can be pretty. It’s like the soil that helps plants grow.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was all it took for Satori to let him blend all the colours until there were patches of different hues of brown coating the page. A blue-based brown was combined with a yellow-based one, and it only made Satori smile even more -- Wakatoshi wanted to snap a photo of that wonderful expression. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Determined to save the art from complete </span>
  <em>
    <span>brown, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Satori let it dry and after a dinner of laughing, old country music and bad jokes, the artist of the two led Wakatoshi to his couch, where he inched his table forward. Then, he drew. His pencil connected with their shared art, Satori’s skilled hands creating the meek line of a sprout, peeking up from the dirt. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can go over it later, if you’d like.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Wakatoshi merely smiled. “It’s perfect how it is.” </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in his tone of voice made Satori wonder if he was talking about more than the painting in that one, short sentence, but he agreed. The translucence of the single coat of green paint gave the single shoot a ghostly feeling. It made him want to draw more, like a time-lapse capturing the growth of a single plant, from a seed to a flowering beauty. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>However, he could do that later. This was his boyfriend’s art, and Satori grabbed a thin, black pen to sign their names in the corner. “I won’t sell this.” He promised, pulling Wakatoshi in for a chaste kiss. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel his boyfriend smile into his mouth, and in that moment, everything felt good. His boyfriend was here, with him, and didn’t care that his job wasn’t exactly stable. Wakatoshi’s ever constant reliability made up for the unsteadiness of his line of work. His life was balanced, and that was all he could ever ask for. </span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really love you.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you too, Satori.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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